A Plague of Legends: Sadistic Desire
by Ishuca
Summary: A chance encounter leads to Harry reconsidering his opinions on a certain Slytherin. Toga Quidditch, Power Struggles, and Legends abound as Harry and Co. struggle to understand one Draco Malfoy. Darkfic. HP/DM SLASH. Formatting has been fixed.
1. Prologue: The World

Warnings: SLASH. You don't know what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.  
  
A/N: I am using a Japanese version of word to write this, so I've been having issues with boxes. However, I *think* that they have now been fixed. :crosses fingers:  
  
Couplings: H/D, D/Blaise, potentially R/Hr. No, sorry people, this is not a fic where the entire wizarding population is queer.  
  
Spoilers: Potentially everything. Just cause I don't have the supplement books yet means nothing.  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. Nothing. The story- is fully conceived and waiting to be written. The characters- I borrow.

Prologue: Of Glass Mountains and Ruby Hearts

Or, The World

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess, so lovely that even the stars themselves sighed whenever she passed under them. From one look into her eyes, hardened murderers would begin their lives anew, artists would go insane, and inspired ballads would spring fully conceived from the mouths of bards and minstrels. She was simply that exquisite.

This princess was betrothed to an equally handsome prince, and everything was going rather well in their lives until she was captured by an evil wizard who was smitten by her beauty. Enamored of her star-like eyes, her ivory throat, her midnight hair, he demanded her love and her hand. However, the princess was heartbroken, and she would have none but her prince. She spurned the advances of her captor, and soon was thrown into a cell until such time as she became amenable to the wizard 


	2. Chapter 1: The Tower

Warnings: SLASH. You don't know what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.  
  
A/N: I am using a Japanese version of word to write this, so I've been having issues with boxes. However, I *think* that they have now been fixed. :crosses fingers:  
  
Couplings: H/D, D/Blaise, potentially R/Hr. No, sorry people, this is not a fic where the entire wizarding population is queer.  
  
Spoilers: Potentially everything. Just cause I don't have the supplement books yet means nothing.  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. Nothing. The story- is fully conceived and waiting to be written. The characters- I borrow.

Chapter 1: The Bones Have Spoken!

Or, The Tower

Whenever Harry thought about Crookshanks, he remembered the rare times when the cat deigned to sit on his lap. As much as Crookshanks was Hermione 


	3. Chapter 2: The Moon

Warnings: SLASH. You don't know what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.  
  
A/N: I am using a Japanese version of word to write this, so I've been having issues with boxes. However, I *think* that they have now been fixed. :crosses fingers:  
  
Couplings: H/D, D/Blaise, potentially R/Hr. No, sorry people, this is not a fic where the entire wizarding population is queer.  
  
Spoilers: Potentially everything. Just cause I don't have the supplement books yet means nothing.  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. Nothing. The story- is fully conceived and waiting to be written. The characters- I borrow.

Chapter Two: A Subtle Shade of Hatred

Or, The Moon

"_Regarding the latest batch of rumors- the ones which claim that the Silver is proof of close ties between the Veela and my family: nothing could be further from, or closer to, the truth_."

_- Demetrius Malfoy, 1097 A.D._

***

To those not knowing any better, Draco Malfoy's eyes were nothing more or less than that, in spite of their rare shade. Even his detractors (numerous as they were) would admit, only under pressure of course, that the color was slightly unusual. However, they were always quick to add that pretty eyes do not a git unmake.

Draco Malfoy's eyes were most noteworthy when he was caught up in some rare emotion; the light grey darkening almost to pitch, silver rings detailing the boundaries of his irises and offsetting the paleness of his lips, his hair. Yet other than their unique color there was nothing obviously different or special about them- certainly their charm did not begin to compare to the shades of Avada Kedavra that rested in Harry Potter's eyes. There were even those who argued that the Weasley blue was a harder to come by hue than Malfoy's marbled stare. Then again, one can rarely expect much of the ignorant.

To those who did know better, the color of Malfoy's eyes was the stuff of legends- real-life legends. Truthfully, those of high wizarding ancestry would at times become so invested in his eye color that he could hardly claim it as his own. But more than anything else, his eyes marked him as a Malfoy- stripped him of individuality and forced him in line behind his forebears. The color even had its own name among the wizarding elite: Malfoy Silver. The Silver's Rumor Mill churned in cycles: each time a child was born in the Malfoy clan the rumors would crackle up into life until the child had been revealed, then sputter into faded embers until the birth of the next Malfoy. 

This pattern had endured without change for longer than the oldest witch or wizard could remember, and through the years had become worn and familiar, finally transforming into something ritualistic, almost sacred. The birth of a new Malfoy would be proudly announced and the privileged few would wait, tongues searching out dusty myths to pass the time until the child had been revealed. The unveiling itself was always the same- the same for every young Malfoy and the same for the audience; a tradition stretching in an unbroken line that cast hundreds of years. Stepping out into some ornate ballroom, or perhaps standing unseen and almost overlooked in the shadows cast by an oversized candelabra, the Malfoy child would look up and out into the morass of waiting eyes. The passage of time interrupted, even something as natural as breathing became blasphemy. Like the quiet that pervades a religious service, scattered silence would ripple over everyone present in clusters and waves until it sat unbroken- a thick blanket that, for a few infinite seconds, displaced air and thought. Yet despite the pressure of expectations unaired, the weight of a lineage unbroken, there was never any fear or hesitation as the small, tilted, narrow, long, huge, wide, unmistakably _Malfoy_ eyes stared luminously back at their audience. And that was that. Air and thought restored, the legend upheld, people's attention would turn, gnat-like, to other gossip and affairs.

As far as anyone could tell, the Malfoy Silver had been and would be around forever, but only if one defined 'forever' as lasting until the last Malfoy took his final breath. It was a shade that could not be altered by time, genetics, or the personal persuasions and preferences of the individual Malfoy. Nothing could change the hue of a Malfoy's eyes, no magic could reproduce it, and no true Malfoy was born without it. One had only to look at Malfoy Manor's portrait collection to be sure of this; although the Malfoys had mixed with wizards and witches from all places and cultures (provided the pedigrees matched Malfoy standards, of course) there was not a single Malfoy whose eyes did not glow silver from behind masks of chocolate, bronze, yellow, or pale pale white. The halls of Malfoy Manor were said to be cluttered with those ancestral portraits, all of them griping, laughing, pouting, and posturing, lighting blackened corridors and rooms with the reflection of their gazes. Somehow the faded magic of their eyes overcame the limitations imposed by brush and paint. To those unused to it, the experience could be more than a bit unsettling.

If it was to be considered a puzzle, the final piece to the Malfoy legend was that no one outside of the Malfoy family knew when or how the Silver came into existence; it was even sometimes breathed about that the Malfoys themselves did not know. Whatever the Malfoys did know about it was kept close; closer than what took place behind the closed gates of Malfoy Manor, closer than their politics, and certainly closer than their friends. However, there was one thing that had not been kept close, at least not well: as prolific as the Malfoy clan had once been, at the time of our story there were only two people alive who could claim to be true Malfoys.

***

The whole thing began with Blaise Zabini, all of the sheets in Slytherin's sixth year boys' dormitory, and the key to the Quidditch storage shed. Although most of Slytherin house would later argue that the real feuding started when Bulstrode the Buffalo (Millicent Bulstrode's unfortunate, if appropriate, nickname since her first year, grafted permanently to her sizable self by her loving dorm-mates) assumed control, the real culprit was never fingered, her name never mentioned in any way other than rueful admiration. After all, she _had_ somehow managed to filch those keys, undetected, from Hooch. It had been the act of a true Slytherin. Not to mention the fact that she had actually managed to get one increasingly reclusive Draco Malfoy to agree to the caper. And while Blaise took great care to puff out her chest when complimented, lips curving slightly as her brilliance was acknowledged, inside. . . inside she raged. 

A carefully constructed plan is much like a well crafted potion: slightly unstable fingers, the twitch of a wrist, even too heavy a breath could cause failure in a seemingly perfect enterprise. In this case, Blaise supposed that Bulstrode had been the mistake, as perfect for the main role as she had seemed to be during Blaise 


	4. Chapter 3: The Magician

Warnings: SLASH. You don't know what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.  
  
A/N: I am using a Japanese version of word to write this, so I've been having issues with boxes. However, I *think* that they have now been fixed. :crosses fingers:  
  
Couplings: H/D, D/Blaise, potentially R/Hr. No, sorry people, this is not a fic where the entire wizarding population is queer.  
  
Spoilers: Potentially everything. Just cause I don't have the supplement books yet means nothing.  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. Nothing. The story- is fully conceived and waiting to be written. The characters- I borrow.

Chapter Three: Paper Faces

Or, The Magician

Draco Malfoy did not think about Harry Potter half as much as the Hogwarts population assumed he did; after all, he had his own life. Not that many people would believe it. Looking up from his mess of food, Draco stared out at the school. He was only mildly gratified when it stared back. Truthfully, Draco did not mind if most people thought otherwise- there was much to be gained from the fact that Hogwarts was operating under a misapprehension as to what he really did with his time. So if he occasionally sneered or mouthed off at the Boy Wonder it was more in the way of keeping up appearances than anything else. If it hadn't been so important for Draco to maintain a solidly pitch front to his audience he would have stopped the charade ages ago.

Point number one: The whole thing wasn't getting old- it _was_ old. As much as Draco had enjoyed the sensation of twirling his villain's moustache in first and second year, the whole thing had long since become stale. Number two: He did not buy his way onto the Quidditch team. Draco had not needed to. If Terence had a father as obsessed with perfection as Draco's was, then maybe he would have flown better in tryouts. So yes, maybe some galleons did pave Draco's way onto the house Quidditch team, but only if one can consider intensive flying lessons at age six bribery. Yet as much as the accusations of bribery rankled Draco's pride, he did everything he could to encourage them. It was in the script. The question of how Draco really felt about Quidditch was never, and never would be, an issue. Number three: He was a Malfoy. Not that most of the peons present at Hogwarts knew what that meant, but it mattered. Number four: There was absolutely nothing wrong with him. _Nothing_. And damn his father, Dumbledore, and everyone else for saying otherwise. Number five: Potter.

It was this last one which made the rest of the situation so utterly unbearable; if Draco was required to maintain a charade, even when his life was coming down around his ears, the least he could ask for would be some support from the other lead. Draco doubted if anyone in his audience knew how difficult is it to play villain to something than can no longer be classified as a person, let alone a hero. While Potter had seemed content for years to play against Draco 


	5. Chapter 4: The Hanged Man

Warnings: SLASH. You don't know what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.  
  
A/N: I am using a Japanese version of word to write this, so I've been having issues with boxes. However, I *think* that they have now been fixed. :crosses fingers:  
  
Couplings: H/D, D/Blaise, potentially R/Hr. No, sorry people, this is not a fic where the entire wizarding population is queer.  
  
Spoilers: Potentially everything. Just cause I don't have the supplement books yet means nothing.  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. Nothing. The story- is fully conceived and waiting to be written. The characters- I borrow.

Chapter Four: A Truce of Sorts

Or, The Hanged Man

Harry hated the way that Malfoy said his name. _Potter_. Malfoy spat it out like a blasphemy, like the sounds forming his name were disgusting, hateful. Maybe to Malfoy, they were. Harry didn't know.

Truthfully, Harry wasn 


	6. Chapter 5: The Seven of Cups

Warnings: SLASH. You don't know what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.  
  
A/N: I am using a Japanese version of word to write this, so I've been having issues with boxes. However, I *think* that they have now been fixed. :crosses fingers:  
  
Couplings: H/D, D/Blaise, potentially R/Hr. No, sorry people, this is not a fic where the entire wizarding population is queer.  
  
Spoilers: Potentially everything. Just cause I don't have the supplement books yet means nothing.  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. Nothing. The story- is fully conceived and waiting to be written. The characters- I borrow.

Chapter Five: Pedestals

Or, The Seven of Cups

It was strange, but Harry soon realized that Malfoy's attention rarely fixed on the Gryffindor table. For some reason, this observation upset Harry- he had imagined, when he had bothered to think about it, that Malfoy hated him to the point of obsession. It had always seemed that Malfoy tracked his every movement and gloated over his every mishap. Seemed. On the contrary, Malfoy _seemed_ to regard Gryffindor, and Harry, as nothing more than an afterthought, timing his empty glares to last only long enough to be noted.

Again, the crucial word was 'seemed.' Really, all Malfoy had done over the past year was sneer at Harry and occasionally poke vicious fun at him. There had been no half-baked pranks, no stand-offs in the corridors, and no further attempts at expulsion. To be perfectly honest, there had been nothing. Nothing.

Was that all he was to Malfoy- a nothing? Why should it matter even if he was? Because it shouldn't. But it did. And it didn't. Malfoy had never been a person to Harry, just as he supposed that he'd never been a real person to Malfoy. But there had always been something connecting them, even if it was only disgust. And now it seemed as though even that was gone, bled into nothingness.

Sometimes Harry felt like he was full of nothingness, with black holes flowing out through his ears and mouth, contaminating everything around him. He wondered if it had even gone so far as to contaminate this, his last bastion of normalcy. The one thing he'd thought he could always take for granted. Because of his life with the Dursleys, Harry had always found it easy to believe in the continuity and permanence of hate. All one had to do was look at Voldemort and the Death Eaters. And, Harry had always thought, Draco Malfoy. Was this, too, his fault?

Harry looked over at the Slytherin table. Malfoy was whispering something in Zabini's ear, his lips catching at her hair. She looked surprised, almost happy. Harry suddenly hated her, had to draw in a deep breath when she tore at Malfoy's raw lips. Her mouth came away bloody, gaping wound-like as she fell to the floor. Malfoy was uncoiling, speaking to Millicent Bulstrode. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He caught the drops with his tongue, smirked. Bulstrode snarled and sent her fist flying, stumbling backwards when Goyle caught her punch and quickly returned the favor. She crumpled like a felled ox, her legs twisting awkwardly as she struggled against the floor. Dozens of snake eyes fixed on Malfoy, glittering. Malfoy waved one of those rosewater hands at Goyle, and drawled a few words at Bulstrode. She bristled, doglike. Malfoy walked to the doors, then stood there with his head half-cocked as he waited for his opponent. Bulstrode made no move to lift herself off the floor.

_Snap_.

Had Malfoy actually snapped his fingers at her? Looking at Bulstrode, Harry mused that he had never even seen _Ron_ turn that red. Never. Malfoy snapped his fingers again, barking out a sharp order as he left the dining hall. Hands flexing against the flagstone under her, Bulstrode shoved herself up and followed Malfoy outside. Zabini was now on the bench, her eyes narrowed as she licked blood from her lips.

"What was that about?" Ron's voice was dismissive.

When had Ron –and everyone else, for that matter- begun paying attention to the Slytherins? Even Hermione was staring at the now closed doors, quill tapping against her Arithmancy text in irritation.

"You would think that they could at least keep their power struggles private. We didn't need to see that." Only a few days ago, Hermione had used that same tone of voice to air her opinions on Trelawny and the walrus prediction.

"That was a power struggle?"

"Ron. What did you think it was?"

"A love triangle?"

"Ron, can you seriously see Malfoy –or Zabini for that matter- becoming involved with _Millicent Bulstrode_? You obviously have no concept of the meaning of 'wrong,' do you?"

Ron flushed and opened his mouth, obviously about to defend his position to its bitter illogical end.

"Um, guys? I'm going to go to the bathroom. I'll see you in class." Harry practically ran out of the dining commons, the hall doors swinging in his wake. Hermione favored Harry 


	7. Chapter 6: The Knight of Wands

Warnings: SLASH. You don't know what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.  
  
A/N: I *think* that I have fixed the box issue. Hopefully. As always, this is for Margolia.  
  
Couplings: H/D, D/Blaise, potentially R/Hr. No, sorry people, this is not a fic where the entire wizarding population is queer.  
  
Spoilers: Potentially everything. Just cause I don't have the supplement books yet means nothing.  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. Nothing. The story- is fully conceived and waiting to be written. The characters- I borrow.

Chapter Six: Chasing the Snitch

Or, The Knight of Wands

The rest of the morning saw Harry and Ron strapped to Infirmary beds and Hermione holed up in the library. Hermione might have felt bad about leaving them to fend for themselves, but they had all of the sixth year boys in Gryffindor and Slytherin to keep them company.

Excepting, of course, one Draco Malfoy.

Hermione might have otherwise been tempted to laugh at how the Infirmary seemed to be filled with tottering mummies (thankfully, no one was suffering from truly serious burns), she was instead obsessing over Malfoy. And she resented him for it.

She resented that she could not just let this go, even though it was only Malfoy. Or perhaps _because_ it was Malfoy. Malfoy wasn't worth the time that she was currently dedicating to him, definitely wasn't worth Harry's sudden and strange preoccupation (don't think she hadn't noticed), wasn't worth the imprint her hand had left behind it years ago. Why should she care? She didn't. And yet, here she was, scouring through all of the texts on possession she could find. And there was not much. The really important texts were in the Restricted Section, and even Hermione had been having a difficult time wrangling passes there from teachers since fifth year. While it could not be said that paranoia was running rampant at Hogwarts, the floors might have been covered in broken glass with the way all of the teachers were acting.

Hermione shoved the mess of books in front of her away to make room for her elbows, steepling her fingers as she rested her face in her hands' netting. A lock of brown bushy fluff fell in her face. She crossed her eyes and puffed it away, only to watch it come floating back. Puff, fall, puff, fall, puff.

It just didn't make sense. Dumbledore just _had_ to have protections up that prevented things like possessions from happening at Hogwarts. No one wanted demons roaming the halls, rooming with children, and studying human magic – even if their true power was sheathed in flesh. It just didn't make sense. And as for that rubbish Malfoy had tried to feed her about it being a family trait- well, deception was a Slytherin institution, now wasn't it?

Hermione nibbled at one of her split ends, scrutinized the brown tips for hints of lurking demons. Demons. . . demons? What if she wasn't approaching the problem from the right angle? What if the possession _wasn't_ demonic? The Veela had been very clear that 'not all possessions are of demonic origin.' What if Malfoy had been possessed by a human? Hermione twitched, accidentally jerking out a clump of hair. What if he was under the Imperius Curse?

Hermione rubbed her forehead, her teeth scraping along the inside of her mouth. Malfoy under the Imperius Curse 


	8. Chapter 7: Temperance

Warnings: SLASH. You don't know what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.  
  
A/N: Forever to Margolia.  
  
Couplings: H/D, D/Blaise, potentially R/Hr. No, sorry people, this is not a fic where the entire wizarding population is queer.  
  
Spoilers: Potentially everything. Just cause I don't have the supplement books yet means nothing.  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. Nothing. The story- is fully conceived and waiting to be written. The characters- I borrow.

Chapter Seven: Following the White Rabbit

Or, Temperance

Draco had never been good at exercising patience. His father claimed that it was Draco's worst character trait and had done his best to correct the flaw. For the most part, the elder Malfoy had done an outstanding job; Draco was now able to maintain an impassive front for months, even years, as he laid siege to castles in the sky. Draco was well aware that revenge was best served, not coldly, but in its proper time. If timed and calibrated correctly, even the toss of a head could destroy an opponent. Even so, he had never been able to eradicate his impatience- only subdue it.

***

The past couple of weeks had been very strange, to say the least. Not for the first time since that Saturday (had it really only been two weeks?), Harry wondered if he hadn't somehow fallen out of reality; he now had a good idea of how Alice had felt when she'd followed the White Rabbit down that hole to Wonderland. Harry also wondered where his own White Rabbit was leading him.

Thick and dull from boredom, Harry slid a look over to the opposite side of the pitch; Malfoy was hovering listlessly near the goals. The other boy wove in and out of the hoops, his movements sluggish and uninspired. Harry thought he understood: flying alone was one thing, but flying by yourself when you weren't alone was an entirely different matter. Harry knew that both he and Malfoy were not flying like they could; Harry certainly wasn't flying like he wanted to. He just couldn't with Malfoy there. His only consolation was knowing that Malfoy felt the same way. Not that it was much of a consolation.

Harry was floating in circles and examining his Firebolt's finish when Malfoy's voice blared into his ears, almost startling him off of his broom.

"Potter."

"Yes Malfoy?"

"This isn't working."

"Really?"

"Don't be an idiot, Potter. I know that you're not _that_ stupid. At least, I hope not."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Cute, Potter."

"I try." Harry beamed.

A sigh.

"Potter, try for one moment to concentrate. Hopefully that won't be too strenuous an activity for even you. Do you think you can handle it?"

Dryly, "I think I can manage."

"It is patently obvious that we are both almost unconscious with boredom, so unless you do me the favor of not showing up here anymore, we are probably both moments away from death by monotony."

"I was coming here last year, Malfoy. If anyone should leave, it's you."

"And how am I to know that you're not lying?"

"I'm not lying!"

"Do you honestly expect me to believe you? Have faith that you, a Gryffindor, would never lie? Well Potter, how about this: Bring me one witness who can honestly support your claims and I'll leave. I'm prepared to take the risk that you can't."

". . ."

"No more complaints?"

Harry gnawed at the inside of his lip, cautiously observing the other boy. Malfoy hung in the air like a Muggle airborne satellite, graceless and without joy. Sleep tugged insistently at the corners of his eyes, desperate to hide the venom and. . . hope? The hope lurking there.

"What do you have in mind?"

***

When Harry agreed to spice things up, he had not anticipated that breaking and entering would be what Malfoy had in mind. Of course Malfoy was Malfoy- and Malfoy was a Slytherin- so Harry immediately recognized his mistake.

"Malfoy!" Harry hissed into the broom shed, "Where did you get that key?"

A series of thumps and thuds issued from the shed. Something crashed. Harry twitched. Malfoy swore.

"Mordred! Someone should dispose of these old Comets; only brooms with rot or termites should shatter _that_ easily."

"Malfoy!" Harry was going to strangle him. The git couldn't have seriously. . . never mind. He most certainly could have.

"What?" Malfoy's irritated voice echoed back at Harry, "Oh, the key. I stole it from Blaise."

"You stole it from Zabini." Harry repeated blankly. It was not exactly the way Harry had imagined Malfoy treating his girlfriend. Scratch that. It was _precisely_ how Harry pictured Malfoy treating his girlfriend.

"Yes, yes. Do you need it spelled out for you?"

_Thump_. _Crack. Smash._

"Malfoy! Where did Zabini get the key?"

"Oh, she," _thump_, "stole it," _crash_, "from Hooch."

"She stole it from Hooch." Harry wondered if his voice sounded as weak and disbelieving to Malfoy as it did to him.

Malfoy emerged from the shed, covered in dust and clutching something in his right hand. He brushed his robes and shook his head, grimacing slightly as dust clouds were sent scattering.

"Well, yes. You didn't think that we could just _ask_ for the thing, did you?" Malfoy snorted.

"What did you and Zabini need it for?" Now Harry was curious.

Malfoy ran his fingers through his hair, coughing slightly as the resulting brown grime settled on his face. He looked down his nose at Harry (something which Harry was quite impressed by, considering he was taller than Malfoy) and pronounced, "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Harry would believe that the day Fluffy became a vegetarian.

"Did I stutter?"

Malfoy's sneer lacked its usual bite, probably because he was a bit preoccupied with removing cobwebs from his person. There was even a spider scampering about in a panic on Malfoy's head. Harry imagined he heard it scream when Malfoy squeezed the life out of it.

"Did it 


	9. Chapter 8: The Five of Swords, Reversed

Warnings: SLASH. You don't know what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.   
  
Couplings: H/D, D/Blaise, potentially R/Hr. No, sorry people, this is not a fic where the entire wizarding population is queer.  
  
Spoilers: Potentially everything. Just cause I don't have the supplement books yet means nothing.  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. Nothing. The story- is fully conceived and waiting to be written. The characters- I borrow.

A/N: This is a darkfic. Meaning that there will be blood, tears, suffering, and more in later chapters. Be warned. 

In addition, I will be posting to ff.net less and less frequently in the coming months. There will at times be a week's lag between the posting of my chapters to my website (http://ishuca.kaerichi.net) and here. I can also be found at the PSA and Schnoogle. Cookies, comments, and more can be found at my live journal.

Chapter Eight: The Semantics of Kissing

Or, The Five of Swords, Reversed

_"The granting of wishes and longings can be a dangerous thing. It is especially so if one's desires are shallow, fragmentary, or ephemeral. However, there is no wish more perilous than the one that is uncertain."_

_Demetrius Malfoy, 951 A.D._

***

Malfoy stepped out of the showers. His hair clung to his head like a bleached skullcap, beads of water dripping from his hair to his nose to his chin and splattering across his flushed chest. A black towel trimmed in silver rode low on his hips, somehow both less and more decent than a loincloth. Malfoy appeared a mythic elf, like the ones who had populated Harry's childhood: graceful, petite and slender; not short, squat and clothed in tea towels.

Harry did not regret the loss of his childhood daydreams, not really; after all, most of them had been brought to life in one way or another. But Harry also did not forget the fantasies that Dudley had been so quick to discard for game consoles and toy guns. He did not forget gentle Lion-Gods and star-lit Elves, or their tales of bravery and sacrifice. However, he did not make the mistake of confusing these noble legends with the wet boy who stood dripping and proud beside him.

Malfoy was white and silver all over, shiny and unblemished like an ivory sculpture. He made Harry feel dark and ungainly, especially in moments like this one. Even so, Harry could not stop looking at the other boy. Those slanted glances, obscured by dipped head and lowered lashes, had become a daily ritual. They were the inevitable counterparts to the boys' early morning games and the following trips to the Slytherin locker room. The curve of Malfoy's ankles brought to mind the morning of their first game. . .

***

_An extremely dirty Harry Potter stumbled behind Draco Malfoy into the Slytherin lockers. Harry waved a fist at Malfoy's back._

_ "Why don't you just admit that you lost, Malfoy? I already had your flag in my hand by the time you got mine."_

_ "Of course Potter, but only when you admit that you placed your tenth rank Shield illegally in my path."_

_ "I did not! I__ at least looked at the rules before playing."_

_ "Potter, I have been playing Stratego since I was eight years old. And while I am impressed that your very basic understanding of our mother tongue was enough for a very basic understanding of the rules, rule number forty three, section B, paragraph four, subparagraph two clearly__ states that Shields ranking tenth level or above cannot be moved diagonally when the Rainbow has been called."_

_ Harry stared at Malfoy. Obviously the only thing stopping the other boy from ending his tirade with an 'I told you so' was his ingrained snobbery._

_ "So why don't I remember there even being__ a rule forty three, let alone sections A or B?"_

_ "Probably because your intelligence is on par with that of someone who snogs Dementors as a form of entertainment."_

_ "And you have less tact than a faun in heat, but you don't see me complaining, do- What are you doing, Malfoy?"_

_ Harry stared at Malfoy's suddenly bare arms and chest. Malfoy's skin was white, whiter than his face, if that was even possible. Harry would have thought that skin so white would be repulsive, maybe look like dead flesh, but it wasn't. It didn't. It was. . . beautiful. Like an old painting or one of those famous Muggle statues, mottled stone stretched thin over fluid muscles. Malfoy snatched his robes off of the floor and tossed them onto the bench, the muscles in his arms flexing. His bare, unmarked arms._

_ Malfoy glanced at the pile of robes on the bench beside him, then at the pajama top he'd just removed. He sneered._

_ "I am stripping. What does it look like?"_

_ "You're stripping." Harry wondered just when Hermione's prudishness had begun to rub off on him. It wasn't like he hadn't been doing this with the boys from Gryffindor since first year. There wasn't anything special about Malfoy, he was just a boy like Ron or Neville._

_ Just like them. Was that relief?_

_ "Potter, would you look at me?" Malfoy pointed at his oh-so-slightly smudged face, his tousled hair. "I am in desperate need of a thorough cleansing, as, I might add, are you."_

_ Malfoy stepped out of his pajama bottoms, the silk puddling at the tips of his toes. Harry blushed and decided that now was as good a time as any to examine the door of a nearby locker. Surprisingly, it was no different from the Gryffindor lockers. Even the stain of the wood was the same, a light red. Red. Well, at least Harry now knew exactly how baseless all of the rumors about Malfoy were. Sounds of spraying water issued from the next room over. Right, a shower._

_ "I know that, Malfoy! But I don't have a towel. And I don't have the key to my House's locker rooms, unlike some people here," Harry yelled._

_ "Well, of course you don't have a key. You're a Gryffindor__. And Gryffindors would never steal__ anything, now would they?" Harry looked at the Zuu, glittering on top of Malfoy's robes, and flinched. Malfoy made some splashing noises. "So you have no towel. And since you're whining, I should assume that you are currently unable of transfiguration."_

_ It was a tactful (and very un-Malfoy-like) way of asking if Harry had forgotten his wand. Harry nodded, then realized that Malfoy couldn't see him. "Yes."_

_ "Well, given a choice between sullying one of our towels or dealing with your stench, I suppose I'll just have to breathe through my mouth until you leave. As common a practice as it may be."_

_ "Malfoy! Can't you act like a human being for just once and lend me a towel?"_

_ Malfoy emerged from the showers, vigorously toweling his head. His lips were quirked up at the corners._

_ "Why no, I don't think that I can. And anyway, Potter, the question is not one of whether or not I can act like a human. I am human, so it logically follows that I act like one. The real question you need to ask is one of whether or not I'm humane__ enough to lend (or make) you a towel. Which I'm not." Malfoy smiled viciously, showing off his dimples. Harry blinked, for a moment forgetting about the Slytherin's blatant nudity. Malfoy had dimples. Malfoy__, of all people.___

_ "You didn't actually think that I would lend you a towel, did you?" Malfoy's dimples deepened. "You did, didn't you? How very trusting."_

_ Harry realized that dimpling could be considered a very wicked thing indeed. He wondered if Malfoy's father dimpled evilly at people before consigning them to the seventh level of Hell, or if Malfoy had inherited his dimples from his mother. A very disturbing thought suddenly back-ended Harry. What would Voldemort look like with dimples, the edges of his poker-red eyes crinkling? Harry thanked Merlin that he had no breakfast in his stomach to lose._

_ "Just be grateful that I'm letting you use our showers. When you have brought your own towel, of course."_

_ "Of course."_

_ "Well, what are you waiting for? You're fouling the air in here. Begone."_

_ "Of course, anything to please your lordship."_

_ There were those dimples again._

_ "Anything, Potter? I'll have to keep that in mind."_

_ Harry blushed and made a valiant attempt at stuttering out a witty reply. "Uh, well, I-"_

_ "Oh, just go now." A flash of teeth. "Unless you'd like to watch me change?"_

_ Harry fled. Running from Malfoy was getting to be quite a habit._

***

Harry stepped into his boxers and scowled at Malfoy, remembering his return that morning to Gryffindor Tower. Not only had Harry had to sneak back into his room without waking up Ron and the others, but he'd also been forced to take a quick run through the shower. Harry would never think of Seamus' snoring as anything but a blessing from that day forward. Between the Irish foghorn and his Silencing spells Harry had managed to get clean, but it had been a lot more trouble than it'd been worth. That morning had been the last time Harry forgot to bring his towel (or wand) to the Quidditch pitch with him.

It had also marked a subtle change in his Malfoy obsession. Harry himself didn't know what to make of it. At least, he spent a lot of time telling himself that. Some times were worse than others, like when Malfoy spilled Harpy blood and licked the drops off his fingers, the blue liquid staining his lips violet. Or like the day a Blink Puppy had got into a tussle with Malfoy and somehow managed to strip the Slytherin half naked before Hagrid got him collared. Or like the times when Zabini straddled Malfoy's lap before classes and at meals, their tongues playing tag and hands hidden under robes.

At such times Harry's breathing became labored, heavy. Visions of Malfoy parading naked in front of him, water drawing wet trails along pale skin, flooded his senses and he _remembered. He remembered everything, from Malfoy's sneers and smiles to Ron's loud laughter to Hermione's gentle chiding to the sounds of his parents dying screams. __Kill the spare. He remembered all and none of this in a matter of instants. What Harry was really remembering was what it was like to feel. Deep and strong emotions, not the shallow dull things that are all a mind on auto-pilot can offer. Like a diver surfacing for air, Harry came up from within himself and looked around with blurred eyes._

And what he saw was Malfoy. Malfoy, who had thrust him into this kaleidoscope. Malfoy who blew up Neville's potions, who called people 'Mudblood', who smiled at him, naked and slick. Malfoy, who was apparently defined as much by his role in life as Harry was by his own. Malfoy, who had silver eyes and skin that just begged to be colored. Nowadays everything seemed to come back to Malfoy.

There were days when Harry found himself tracing out the curve of Malfoy's back in his notebooks, black ink bleeding wobbly lines in hesitant strokes. Ron asked him a couple of times what he was drawing, but gave up after getting the same answer each time. "Nothing." Because he was drawing nothing. Nothing at all.

Harry lived his days rediscovering the world around him, rediscovering himself in a watercolor montage. People and things change, sometimes almost unrecognizably so, after over a year of absence. Harry was startled, scared, by the floods of emotion that rushed out when he looked at certain people. Ron and Hermione: deep love and loyalty. Dumbledore: respect and affection. Snape: respect and intense dislike. Malfoy: fascination and possessiveness and disgust and. . . nothing. Cho: pity and a sad sort of fondness.

Cho. What had happened to his feelings- no, it _had been love- for Cho? Ever since fourth year he had liked Cho. Cho of the shy smiles, sweet nature, and fierce determination. Over fifth year he had just. . . assumed, Harry supposed, that he still liked her. Now there really was nothing. A vague liking and the shadow of an inclination to get to know her better. But nothing more. Harry wondered when the feeling had died. Not that it really mattered. Looking back, he could see that his crush had been just that: a shallow impulse that had been unable to withstand his complete emotional shutdown. Or, it had been the first signs of his latent sexuality. Now formerly latent._

His sexuality. Merlin, how he hated his sexuality; it was another problem, and a big one. Living in a haze had blurred his life into surreality and a false security. It had muffled his emotions and his thoughts. It had also dampened his perceptions of his growing body. In the space of time it took Malfoy to slip out of his shirt, Harry remembered lust.

Of course, Harry had never truly forgotten it- he'd just never paid it any attention, and when that hadn't worked, had done his damnedest to ignore it. It was less difficult than one would think to be able to disregard a raging erection.

He was sixteen years old, and the drop of a quill would get a rise out of him. Hormones do not wait for the closure of psychological trials, but come a-calling regardless of true desire or intent. There were moments when Harry had been commuting between classes, thinking of the most innocent and dull things (like his Potions homework), and suddenly he was erect. For no reason at all. None. It was at these times that Harry truly appreciated wizard robes. They hid the evidence of his impulsive and utterly indiscriminate body.

Most of the time.

Because there had been that one time. Under the Invisibility Cloak on the way to the kitchens with Ron and Hermione. It had been dark, and stifling, and just a bit musty under the Cloak, bodies pressed together as they slinked over stone. Hermione had gasped, the heat of her blush scorching Harry's cheeks as she whispered a low apology. Harry squirmed away, the indentation left by the press of her hip tingling. Normal or not, Harry still hadn't been able to talk to her without stammering for days afterward.

Was there anything truly 'exciting' about the Whomping Willow? No. Absolutely not. Not that it mattered to a sixteen year old male body. And of course a pretty face or the hint of breasts under robes could do things to him; he was only human. But it was still nothing _real. None of it was anything more than the chemical impulses of an under-stimulated body._

But now. Now he noticed things, and Harry was no longer able to so easily ignore his body. He noticed how Ginny always clung to him and brushed her body against his just_ so. He noticed Parvati's unique beauty, how coffee smooth her skin was. He found himself wondering what color her skin was under her robes, if her nipples were a light chocolate or a dusky rose. And what it would be like to suck at them. He also found himself watching the other boys in the showers, following the water as it traced patterns down their backs. He wondered how different kissing a boy would be from kissing a girl, and then realized that he didn't much care. He watched Malfoy and Zabini play their public sex games and obsessively fantasized about their private ones. He watched Malfoy, remembering the way Malfoy's fingers had felt in his hair. And Harry hated it._

He hated this sudden objectification of the people around him, the way that his mind turned friends and enemies alike into sexual objects. His most disturbing moment came one day in Snape's class when the teacher was berating Neville for yet another failed potion. Harry had been sketching in his notebook and languidly daydreaming about that morning's game with Malfoy, when he was suddenly staring at Snape's crotch and offhandedly wondering what Snape's genitalia were like. If they were big, small or normal. How heavy his balls were. What it would be like to touch them. Taste them. The thought nearly toppled Harry to the floor. Instead, he clutched at his desk, driving his ragged fingernails into the splintered wood, and ignored Ron's anxious whispers. He had just thought about _touching __Snape. Never mind how disgusting Harry found the idea; he'd still __imagined it. Harry wished he could open up his mind and give it a good scrubbing. But he couldn't. So here he was, still wet from his short shower, watching the way Malfoy's privates bobbed as the blonde toweled his hair dry._

"Stop looking, Potter." Malfoy fuzzily ordered. Harry glanced quickly up at Malfoy's face. His head was entirely obscured by his towel.

"I'm not looking, Malfoy." The Zuu sparkled on the bench beside him. Harry picked it up and ran his fingers over the rearing lion.

"You bloody well were, Potter." Malfoy's head emerged from under the towel, his eyes sparking annoyance.

"No, I wasn't." Harry tried his best for a calm, adult tone, but he wondered. How had Malfoy known?

"Yes, you were. I felt your eyes on me. And before you protest your virtue-" Malfoy held up one hand and placed the other on his hip, sashaying above and jiggling below. Harry fought an oncoming blush.

"Let me assure you that I don't need to catch you peeping to know you've been doing it. I'm sure that you, of all people, know what I mean."

Harry wished he didn't. He felt other people's eyes on him all the time, could sometimes even identify who was watching before he'd even turned to look. But that didn't mean he was going to admit anything. This was _Malfoy, for Merlin's sake! Harry placed a thumb over the lion's mouth and pressed down, hard._

"Now, let's see. No need to wonder what you were looking at," Malfoy's voice was wry, "so the question then becomes 'why'? Why were you looking at me, Potter?"

Harry clamped his mouth closed and gripped the Zuu.

"Could it be that Harry Potter, Hero Extraordinaire, Idol to the Masses and Hope of the Righteous finds me, Draco Malfoy the Prince of Slytherin and Spawn of the Dark, attractive?"

Harry kept his mouth shut. These days his body seemed to find rocks attractive. And as much of a git as Malfoy was, he was definitely a step above rocks.

"Of course, I _am irresistible, so it's not very surprising."_

"Malfoy, I just know there's more to this conversation than a chance to increase your egomania."

Actually, Harry doubted it. He also doubted that he could be any more embarrassed than he already was. And since embarrassing Harry seemed to be the goal of all of Malfoy's recent actions. . .

"How perceptive of you."

Malfoy moved like a dying breath, so quickly that Harry could barely register his movements. Between one blink and the next, Harry's wand was sent flying across the room, cracking sharply against the door of a locker. The Zuu toppled off of the bench and rolled towards the showers. Reflexes for once faster than Harry's, almost eerily so, Malfoy pinned Harry against the bench, one hand gripping Harry's wrists together as his other waved the wand that had suddenly materialized there. A low mutter and Harry found his wrists stuck to the bench.

"Let me go, Malfoy!"

"Let me think. No." Malfoy cast shadows on Harry.

Harry wrenched his body off of the bench, wincing when he thudded to the floor. His wrists screamed pain, anchored firm by magic and twisted slightly by the fall. And his robes were dirty, again. Damn Malfoy.

"This isn't funny, Malfoy. Now let me go. You've proven your point."

"This is no joke, which you would understand if you had any idea of what my point is." Malfoy made his point by pressing against Harry, tickling his captive's ear with whispers.

Harry forced himself to ignore the naked slick body rubbing at him, the fingers gliding over him, and met Malfoy's eyes. He would not respond. He would not give Malfoy the satisfaction. He was not Bulstrode.

"Then what is it? A game? If so- fine, you win, let me loose."

Malfoy said nothing, just kept swallowing him up with those utterly impossible eyes. And then-

"Malfoy! What are you **doing?!" Harry made a very ineffective attempt at dislodging the other boy. The blonde curled up against Harry like a cat or a snake.**

"I'm sucking on your ear-"

"Let go!"

"- and feeling you up. Even you should be able to understand that much."

Harry struggled and flailed, but Malfoy wouldn't stop. He'd stopped licking Harry's ear and was now concentrating on the hollow of Harry's throat, his hands tearing at Harry's pajamas.

"You can't tell me that you don't want this and don't think about this when you look at me. You are always looking at me. Always."

"No, I. . ." Yes, maybe there were times when he thought about Malfoy, he thought about a lot of people. And yes he sometimes looked at Malfoy, but he didn't _want Malfoy! He couldn't. Malfoy's mouth on his neck made him feel sick, ecstatic._

"Yes, you. Did you think I hadn't noticed? Mordred, Potter, you do it whenever I'm in the same room as you. Classes, mealtimes, here in the locker room! And if you are so _naïve," Malfoy spat out the word, "as to not understand why you are doing this, then I have no choice but to educate you."_

Malfoy ripped open Harry's pajama top, eyes cool as he surveyed, cataloged, and rated. "Not bad, Potter. Now let's see about the rest of you." Malfoy shoved down the night bottoms, blinked. "Please tell me that you're not wearing jumbo-sized orange and pink striped boxers. Because a colony of hippopotami could sword dance in there and still have room to set up a buffet. Mordred."

Harry scowled and blushed. They had been Dudley 


	10. Chapter 9: The King of Pentacles, Revers...

Warnings: SLASH. You don't know what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.   
  
Couplings: H/D, D/Blaise, potentially R/Hr. No, sorry people, this is not a fic where the entire wizarding population is queer.  
  
Spoilers: Potentially everything. Just cause I don't have the supplement books yet means nothing.  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. Nothing. The story- is fully conceived and waiting to be written. The characters- I borrow.

A/N: This is a darkfic. Meaning that there will be blood, tears, suffering, and more in later chapters. Be warned. 

In addition, I will be posting to ff.net less and less frequently in the coming months. There will at times be a week's lag between the posting of my chapters to my website (http://ishuca.kaerichi.net) and here. I can also be found at the PSA and Schnoogle. Cookies, comments, and more can be found at my live journal.

Chapter Nine: Methods of Possession

Or, The King of Pentacles, Reversed

The Slytherin dungeons hold many secrets, dark shivering things that most of the school sidles away from with averted eyes. These passing pedestrians walk the dungeon's dank halls in a sightless stupor, secure in the empty protection that their rose-tinted blinders provide. But secrets do not simply cease to exist from lack of attention. That is not in their nature, and certainly not in those of Salazar Slytherin. No, these secrets lie still, waiting for those who are clever and observant enough to see them, waiting for someone to unlock their riddles. You see, Salazar Slytherin was a riddler, more than he was ever a schemer. How else, then, could he have unlocked the secrets of hisses and scaled whispers?

Draco longed for the Parseltongue ability, even after years of its obvious lack, even after Potter had sullied the gift by laying claim to it. But even without the ability of snake speak, Draco was endowed with another gift: cleverness. Riddles made his heart pound: more than hot sex in his mouth, more than flying, more than Potter groaning beneath him. Long before the Sorting, five years ago now, Draco had been drawn to the dark and musty depths of Hogwarts long before he ever wandered them, drawn to their rotting riddles. In his time at Hogwarts he had learned many of its secrets, much of its treachery.

In the dungeons, staircases are not the only things that move. Doors, walls, even rooms shift and turn, cavorting in the school's stone depths at the drop of a syllable, a hiss. It was never an incantation, always a word. Just one word, but so simple that only a rare few unravel the mystery. So simple.

It was just as simple to pin Potter to some wall and, teeth scraping against clammy flesh, mutter the secret to eavesdropping stones. The walls, you see, have better ears than any human could ever hope for. They wait for the words, bored by the stillness and pitch, anxious for freedom, however momentary. Permission granted, they shuffle and slide, always accepting as hot and sweaty bodies tumble into their depths. Then more sliding, hiding from sight and sound their new treasures, unwilling to share the view with others. And what a view: a landscape of gold struggling with black and the sun covering night, burning green stars with its white brilliance.

***

Draco liked to pretend that Potter's body was a map of uncharted land, each ridge of muscle and fold of flesh unclaimed territory waiting to be marked. He imagined that his lips were needles, embedding tattooed messages into the flesh beneath them. Their meaning? _Draco__ Malfoy was here, a mantra that Draco intended to etch deep into Potter, through skin and muscle until the words were drilled into bone._

Each time they came together Draco moved methodically over Potter's skin, touching only the flesh that was already his. That and one new part. Every time he took a new piece with his lips, tongue, and fingers, he sent a little more of himself into Potter, his essence bleeding under his opponent's skin.

It was almost enough. Almost. The feel of his enemy trembling beneath the tips of his fingers, limbs askew and quivering as his tongue made whirlpools of once-firm skin. The shuddering gasps that Potter released, knees and hands clenched tight to Draco's head. The taste of Potter's body as he sweated out hatred. The darkness in his eyes after Draco was finished with him. All these and more were Draco's, yet even they did not outweigh the gravity of Potter's gaze.

Was Draco some kind of rare insect to be pinned, gossamer wings spread eagled, eye dim in the light reflected by a deathly green looking-glass? Potter was stronger than he seemed. Draco had not expected much opposition, certainly not of the sort Potter was mounting.

However, it was a distraction from the daily tedium of his life. Potter, at least, did not treat him like some glass bauble, shattered and half-mended. Potter, at least, did not scheme circles around his position, his life. Potter, at least, did not lock him in a cage, all gleaming golden and set in a position of empty honor.

No, what Potter did was much, much worse.

***

Draco waited for Snape to finish with Potter, his presence puncturing the surrounding shadows. Luckily, the Mudblood and Weasel had been sent on ahead, the combination of oily threat and flashing green eyes thrusting them on their hurried way. The Weasel, red and enraged, had passed blindly by Draco, vision obscured by the hot steam floating up from his mouth. Granger, on the other hand- Granger had sent a scowl flying towards him before scurrying after her pet rodent. Draco felt a brief chill as he imagined the forms their spawn would take.

Snape seemed to be winding up to a climax, his voice thudding harsh and dull against his office door. Potter answered, sullen and curt. Hopefully Potter wasn't talking back at Snape; Draco didn't want to wait for the git forever. He wouldn't even have been there if not for Potter's deplorable behavior during Double Potions. Draco allowed himself a small smile. At least he hadn't been the only one to pay for Potter's inattentiveness; Potter's potion had actually managed to melt through metal, stone, wood, and Binns. Today had probably been the most interesting History of Magic lecture those second years had ever had. Weasley's face had achieved a most satisfying shade of purple.

The voices in Snape's office crescendoed, climaxing as the office door crashed open and Potter came steaming out. Snape's final shout, "And bring your toothbrush!" twisted Potter's lips into a rictus, clown-like and frightening. He stood outside Snape's office and clutched at his satchel, reflexively tightening his grip as the door behind him slammed shut.

Draco slipped up behind Potter and lightly wrapped his arms around the other boy's waist. He fitted his lips to the back of Potter's neck and whispered, "Where do you think you're going?"

Potter shivered at the contact, his voice issuing rough but firm, "I'm not in the mood, Malfoy."

Draco smiled into Potter's skin, breathing in the boy's musk scent.

"And what makes you think that I care? You should have thought about the consequences when you spent all of class staring at me. What in Mordred's name did you find so interesting?"

"You were. . . watching Snape."

"Potter. It was class. He was lecturing. I was paying attention to him and taking notes. You would be wise to follow my lead," a pause, then softly, "Jealous?"

It was an utterly inconceivable thought.

"No! No, I just don't understand what you see in him. Why do you like him?"

"He is a brilliant man."

"He's an insufferable git."

"One does not preclude the other."

Draco wished that he could see Potter's face. He was probably puffing out his cheeks like a toddler. Draco leaned forward and licked Potter's ear, tightening his arms around the other boy, forging chains with his firming touches.

"Malfoy, I'm really not in the mood! And we both have class next period!"

"Let me reiterate: I do not care. Simply because we are intimate does not mean that I am going to coddle you. I am taking advantage of you. Don't expect for me to form emotional attachments any time soon. And if you tell me that you have not cut _one class in over five years here, I won't believe you." As Draco spoke he reached one hand down and gripped at Potter's crotch, slipping the other under robes and shirt to rub at a nipple. Potter hissed, straining and full. Draco squeezed._

"Come with me."

***

Potter sat perched on the edge of Draco's bed, his hands tracing the pattern enchanted into Draco's comforter. Draco double-checked the protections on the door.

"What's this, Malfoy?"

Draco turned from the door and regarded the other boy for a moment. Potter was staring fixedly at the blanket, his legs loose and skin tense as he watched the waves of Chaos crash against each other.

"That is the Malfoy family crest."

Potter blinked. "_This?"_

Draco huffed. He needn't sound so surprised.

"You needn't sound so surprised, Potter. What, did you think that we Malfoys do not have the ability to appreciate abstract art?"

Potter's fingers stilled, "No, it's just- I sort of figured you'd have dragons and swords as your family symbol, not the ocean."

The ocean. What a plebian appellation for the Chaos residing in their crest. Draco shrugged. It was not worth explaining to one without the eyes to see. "Our original coat of arms did run something along those lines, if I recall correctly. However, a thousand years ago one of my ancestors decided to change it. It has remained the same since."

Potter's widened eyes reflected distorted images of Draco back at him. "A _thousand years? Your family is that old?"_

Draco smirked, "Older, although our records are not very clear before then." Draco seated himself near Potter, the mass of his body sending ripples scattering across the bed.

"Enthralling as my quilt may be, how about we make your first visit to my room a memorable one, hmm? So, Potter, what shall it be today?"

Potter had to know what it would be; there was only one reason that Draco would ever have allowed Potter into his room. Even so, Draco delighted in making Potter blush.

"Does it matter? You're just going to do what you want, anyway."

Potter, on the other hand, seemed to delight in sulking.

"True, indeed."

Talking was overrated, anyway.

Clothing tossed to the floor, hands and lips busy on flesh, skin rubbing at skin, and all the while Potter stiff under Draco's ministrations, his eyes boring holes through Draco's skull. Those eyes, those _damned eyes, forever fixed on Draco, peeling back skin and bone layer by layer until his soul was laid bare. Even now, his pants low and raw, muscles tense and waiting, Potter never stopped. Was it possible to rape the rapist?_

Draco peeled away from Potter, his only gratification the low whine that the other boy emitted when Draco left him spit-slick and empty. If he hadn't known better, hadn't felt the evidence hard and swelling beneath him, hadn't been burned by those eyes, Draco would have thought Potter a statue or sex golem. Draco turned away from Potter, his head hanging low as he watched whorls of Chaos crest against his legs.

"Malfoy?"

Draco shuddered at Potter's tender concern. Did he seem to have fallen so low that even his enemy now felt pity for him? His enemy was a fool.

"Potter. Why don't you stop watching me? How can you continue to do so, even in situations where most other people would be clenching their eyes shut? What do you see?"

"I. . ."

"What is it that commands your submission to me, day in and day out? _What do you see?" Draco turned and glared, locking eyes with Potter, trying to pour every bit of his rage and hatred into the space between them. Potter leaned forward, stopping only when his forehead was softly denting Draco's own. Draco was reminded of that day weeks ago, the day their game had begun, sealed with the lightest of kisses and spider legs._

"I see. . . I see hate, and anger, and lust, and resentment. And I see something else, something that I'm sure no one else but me sees." Potter's voice was soft. His breath smelled like pumpkin juice and garlic. Draco hated garlic.

"'Something else'? Something else that is just for you?"

Of all of the illogical, idiotic, utterly Gryffindor things to say.

"I don't love you, Potter."

"I never said I see love."

"You see something else."

"Something else."

"And you won't stop looking until you discover what it is?"

"Yes." Pumpkin and garlic seeped into Draco's lungs, poor substitutes for kisses.

"Then. . . will you tell me what that 'something else' is? When you find out?"

"Yes." Potter's eyes sparked.

The conversation was a broken whisper, its ends woven together by very the act of speaking. The resulting tapestry was no longer just Draco's. It was Potter's, his, and everything between them. It was a bond, some sudden and inexplicable connection that had been forged the moment Potter acknowledged Draco, perhaps even earlier. It was a weapon to be used.

Draco leaned forward and brushed his lips against Potter's jaw, pulling the other boy on top of him. He slid his hands up and down Potter's arms, smiled grimly at the shock scrolling across his victim's face. It was time to put a stop to Potter's objectivity, time to force his engagement. It was time Potter learned about self-mutilation. Draco arched up, rubbing his body against Potter's as he nipped at the Adam's apple bobbing nervously above him.

"Take me, Potter." Draco licked the sweat from Potter's throat. Potter jerked back, stared into Draco's eyes. Draco trailed his tongue along his lower lip, gloating at the way Potter's midnight gaze followed his every move.

"But you. . . I thought. . . you want me to. . ?"

Draco wrapped his legs around Potter's torso and forced their bodies flush. Nothing between them but their skin, breath, looks, and the lies that Draco was weaving.

He arched up and brushed his mouth against Potter's ear, murmuring, "There's more than one way to claim a person. Now do it."

As Draco progressed from emptiness to fullness, Potter's movements fumbling and unsure, he vaguely wondered if the other boy understood exactly who was possessing whom.

It was not the first time Draco had been fucked, and it would most certainly not be the last. Draco had had many virgins; it was, however, the first time a virgin had him. Potter's clumsiness, his innocent brutality, the stilted movements he made: Draco claimed all of these, transformed them into a twisted and passionate facsimile that he then gave back to Potter. And as Potter thrust into him, burying his lips in the hollow of Draco's throat, Draco gloried in the other boy's preoccupation. _Now there were no looks, __now there was nothing but the reality of this experience. Only the reality of Potter sinking more and more deeply into Draco, losing sight of his goals and himself in this frenzied dream._

Draco watched Potter bury himself, panting, unstrung, and waited for the other boy. Just a few more steps, strokes, a little bit more. And then it came: Potter tense and quivering, eyes once more locked with Draco's as he hovered over a bottomless pit. A sound that defied description, a low, lost whisper, "_Draco," and it was over._

Draco shushed the other boy, whispered soft lies as he gathered Potter to him, his lips busy on Potter's face as he kissed away the tears, tongue scraping at the corners of Potter's lips. Never the mouth. That game was for another day. A flick of someone's wand (probably Draco's, seeing as nothing exploded), a whispered invitation and some insistent tugging, and the two boys lay tangled together, vine-like, beneath a silver and green canopy. Draco tucked his head under Potter's chin and pulled his comforter over them, covering their bodies and a smile in Chaos.

He had him.

***

Where was Harry? Ron kept peeking at the classroom door over his notes, searching for that familiar black mop of hair to appear. Of course, Snape was an evil, smarmy, slimy git, so maybe he was still yelling at Harry. But didn't Snape have class this period? Ron seemed to recall seeing second year Ravenclaws sometimes milling around the classroom door after Double Potions. Of course, they _were Ravenclaws, so you could never tell, but. . . Maybe Snape had kept him just late enough that Harry didn't feel like he could go to class. Or maybe Snape had decided to make Harry start his detention early, even though Harry had class. He should have waited for Harry and ignored Snape's threats. He should have realized that Harry was not going to be fine, not if Snape was involved. Snape probably shot darts at a picture of Harry whenever he got stressed. Ron sighed. Why was Hermione poking him? He __was paying attention to the lecture, it was just selective attention. And besides, it wasn't like the Professor was about to curse him or- Bloody Hell._

***

Where was Harry? Ron was lavishing so much attention on the classroom door Hermione feared he was attracting some of his own. If Ron didn't start paying attention to class soon he was going to become one of Professor Moody's famous targets. The professor liked to periodically zap people with minor hexes, screeching out, "Constant Vigilance!" at the top of his lungs. Only last week Ernie MacMillan had visited Madam Pomfrey after class, complaining of a vicious headache. No one had had the heart to tell him about the purple tentacles. Hermione muttered a low warning at Ron, then shoved him in the side when he didn't respond. Yes, she was worried about Harry; but unless Ron actually _wanted to walk away from class with new appendages he was going to have to focus. Besides, Harry could take care of himself. Even if that slimy grave robber, Malfoy, was somehow involved with Harry's absence. What had that git been doing, skulking outside of Snape's office? It was almost like- oh, __dear. Poor Ron._

***

Draco was probably off with that he-slut from Ravenclaw. Those two had been hot and cold ever since fifth year and an incident involving the Prefect's bath, a magical malfunction, chocolate rum bubble bath, and leather. How Draco had chortled afterwards, his laughter rich and sated. They had been smutting around ever since, gorging themselves on sex and conversation. For the life of her, Blaise could not understand what was so enthralling about Arithmansic Theory, but that was probably why Draco insisted on slumming it. As much as Blaise could offer in other areas, she was most definitely not the type to chat philosophy in a post-coital haze. It had to be him.

Lately Draco came to her with his hair wet and slick, a foreign musk always clinging to him like a disease. And while Draco had always played around, he did so selectively. Blaise could not remember him expressing interest over anyone new. Certainly not anyone male. The only boys outside of Slytherin that Draco even deigned to acknowledge (anyone inside Slytherin, and Draco might as well have sent Rita Skeeter a signed and notarized statement) were the Hero and the Whore. And if there was one thing Blaise was sure of, it was Draco's utter disdain for Gryffindor's resident golden boy.

***

Harry woke to the feeling of breath tickling his jaw. Curled against his chest, eyelashes casting shadows like the waning moon, was Draco Malfoy. Sleeping, Draco resembled nothing more than the porcelain dolls Aunt Marge used to give Dudley for his birthdays, long ago. Harry'd have to pick their broken shards out of the carpeting and his feet after Dudley's tantrums.

Draco. Malfoy. That was another change. Harry nuzzled Draco's hair, inhaling the scent of roses and sweat. They had done It. Finally. Harry had expected it to run like their usual encounters: Malfoy playing Harry's body, giving him no space or freedom, taking everything and leaving nothing behind. It almost had. Instead, this slumbering contradiction had given himself to Harry. Harry couldn't understand why, not even when locked in this endless moment of contemplation.

He traced the places he had stained Draco's body bloody, each patch of scarlet an idle daydream come to life. His marks were all over the boy. There- red drops coloring the ghostly throat and chest. There- rough and purpling fingerprints dotting pallid arms. Harry felt like he'd scarred the moon. Snow White, her whiteness now marred, lay shattered in shades of blood. Draco was probably red in other places, too. Harry felt his skin burn at the thought.

Draco -because it _was more than just 'Malfoy' now, but it was also somehow less than 'Draco,' all the fault of today- had been so small under him, around him, inside him. Harry compared his own lanky, tight limbs to those tangled about him and found them lacking. Awkward, boney, and too big in all of the wrong places. Obviously waiting for the growth that Harry doubted would ever come. But somehow, in those last few moments, it had not mattered. Nothing had but the way Draco'd clasped at him, panting, and drawn him closer. The way that everything had disappeared from Draco's eyes, even that __something else, to encompass only Harry. Shades of monochrome splintering to pieces, and Harry reflected in every shard. Was this, then, sex? Or was it Malfoy?_

Who was Draco Malfoy? Harry stared down, willing Malfoy to open his eyes, if only momentarily. Each time he looked at the boy, talked with him, flew with him, tussled with him it was the same question and no answers. At least, no straightforward answers. No answers that he could understand. But then, would he be half so interested if it was a simple matter of yes or no? Would he ever even have noticed if that had been the case? Of course not.

So _why? It was a question Harry had asked himself hundreds of times. He asked it as he watched Draco, eyes hungry and scared. Desire. Desire was an answer. It was not the right answer, but when Harry was feeling particularly in denial, it was one he used. That 'something else' was an answer, also incorrect. How Malfoy was his puzzle. Or perhaps the way Draco's lips felt wrapped around him, dirty and right. And the way Harry sometimes felt when he was near Malfoy, like he could sense the Slytherin's emotions. Those, too, were wrong. There was no one reason, because they were all right, perfect in their entirety. But if it were to come down to one moment, one crystallized second in time, it would have to be the moment when Malfoy, wrapped in green and silver, had flown laughing at him and plucked gold from the air._

The answer was the very _why of Malfoy himself, that and Harry's own strange sense of determination. He would catch Draco Malfoy, just as Malfoy had caught that Snitch. Had he caught him today? Not yet, not yet. . ._

Draco burrowed into the refuge of Harry's arms, whimpering at whatever night terror had followed him into daylight. Harry wanted to ask what dark fears stalked this fearless one, what horror it was that echoed gray and thick in Harry's own mind. He wanted to know what demons Malfoy harbored. Instead, Harry shook Draco awake, murmuring, "It's almost dinnertime. We should get up."

***

Draco surfaced from smoke and darkness to the light cast by green, green eyes. Choking a bit at the oily smog clinging to the back of his throat, he blinked unsteadily at the scarred apparition. Strangely enough, it resembled Potter. Why was he imagining Potter in his bed?

"Malfoy, we have to get up. It's nearly time for dinner, your dorm mates will be back soon. You need to let me out. Malfoy?"

Just a moment. Not even an imaginary Potter could be this gormless. Draco stretched against Potter, enjoying Potter's shaky breath. Ah, yes. They'd had sex. And Potter had not been half bad. He definitely had potential. Just as he now definitely belonged to Draco. Draco pressed closer to Potter, _his Potter, lips and breath etching wet designs into flesh._

"Malfoy, we- I- have to go, now."

"Mmmhmm," Draco nudged Potters legs open, his fingers needy and grasping.

"Mal- _Draco! Stop!" but Potter didn't sound like he wanted Draco to stop. He sounded like he wanted harder, hotter, inside and tight._

"We have," Draco took Potter's fingers into his mouth, watched Potter burn, "at least twenty minutes. It is more than enough time, if you think you are capable. _Are you capable, Potter?" If he hadn't been before, he would be now. Just like if Potter were a fiddle, Draco's fingers were the bow and the tense air between them, strains of Vivaldi._

Draco suddenly found himself under Potter, his wandering hands pinned above his head, Potter's calluses rough against the pads of his fingers. Potter's breath was hot in his face, those green eyes carving holes through Draco's head.

"_Yes."_

"Then show me."

***

Draco laughed into his pudding. Potter was catching hell from the Mudblood over his absence. She'd probably imagined some gruesome torture that Potter had been forced to undergo. Draco did not doubt that he had played a prominent role in her conjectures. It was almost unfortunate that he had returned Potter unharmed to her. It was even more unfortunate that Potter seemed to be coming off lightly. If the Weasel had been present, Potter would have had a much harder time of it. It was perhaps the first (and undoubtedly last) time Draco had ever missed that repugnant rodent. Draco sucked the pudding off of his spoon, suddenly glad of Potter's constant scrutiny. It would only make everything that much easier. Draco licked at the spoon, enjoying the taste of warm metal against his tongue, savoring its bloody tang.

Draco was carefully licking his fingers clean when Blaise sat down beside him, "You look like you've caught the pox."

"Jealous, darling?"

"Hardly. I was just commenting on your complete lack of decency. You could at least button up your shirt. I don't think I have ever seen you looking so rumpled."

"I don't think I have ever been this debauched."

"He has never been so indiscreet before."

"That is because he had never fucked me before."

A long, stiff pause.

"You let him take you?"

"I seem to recall saying something to that effect, yes."

"Why?"

Draco turned away from his dinner and considered Blaise. She looked fragile and thin, the pulse at the base of her throat beating double-time, giving lie to her carefully hooded eyes. Queen of winter, queen of night, she sat cold and silent; dying from the thaw, dying from the look in Draco's eyes. The light that would never be hers, that should have been hers.

"Because he is mine."


End file.
